


Sherlock December Ficlets 2017: Fruitcake

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fruitcake, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock December Ficlets 2017, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:22:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: It's an experiment with dual hypotheses.





	Sherlock December Ficlets 2017: Fruitcake

Sherlock strode back and forth across the kitchen, busily purposeful, with his magnifier in one hand and a slender wooden cooking-skewer in the other. John, in his usual chair at the table with a Sudoku puzzle and the last of his toast and morning coffee, had become fully accustomed to these fits of activity at odd hours and with focus so sharp John could have done nude yoga in Sherlock’s path and Sherlock would have only walked around him, and so was largely able to ignore the pacing, humming, and huffs of impatient breath.

What he could not, in the end, ignore, was a familiar ringing sound of metal spinning against glass, a minute splashing sound, and then the unique thud of bottle on worktop. Clearing his throat and setting down his pencil on top of the folded newspaper, he turned in his chair to look over his shoulder, verifying he was hearing precisely what he’d thought he’d heard.

“Sherlock, is that the good whiskey?”

Sherlock grunt-hummed, annoyed, neither affirming nor denying.

“The one Greg gave me for my birthday?”

“Shush!”

Sherlock was peering into a round metal tin with its lid–bearing a neon green sticky-note on which he had scrawled DO NOT REMOVE!–removed. He had been storing it there for over a month, mostly ignoring it, but every fortnight or so came a morning like this, with the skewer and the clatter of metal implements.

“I will not,” John protested, and turned fully in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re wasting a hundred-pound bottle of whiskey on–what–drowning insects? Pickling fingers?”

“Certainly not,” Sherlock sniffed, and inspected the pointed tip of the wooden skewer through the magnifier, then sniffed it. John saw now that there was a collection of metal measuring spoons in a jumble on the worktop beside the tin.

“What, then?” John demanded. He gestured angrily at the bottle, which was only one-third full. “You know, I’ve been worried about this. I was going to resolve at the new year to stop drinking because every time I’ve gone for that bottle, I couldn’t remember having drunk so much of it.”

“You can’t stop drinking,” Sherlock told him. “We’ve already booked that trip to Alsace.”

“I thought I must be overdoing! But it turns out you’ve been pouring it into that tin full of…I imagine perhaps a clod of dirt? Or a lady’s shoe?”

Sherlock set aside his skewer and magnifier, spun the cap back onto the whiskey bottle. He marched it across the room to its proper cupboard and fitted it into place between bottles of chartreuse and spiced rum. Snapping the cupboard door shut, he turned with a haughty toss of his head and crossed his own arms over his chest.

“It’s a fruitcake.”

John tipped his head. “Pardon?”

“I made a fruitcake. For Christmas.”

All John’s indignation flooded out of him, replaced by bafflement. “What now?”

“My great aunt’s recipe. I baked it on stir-up Sunday–”

“The hell?”

“–and it’s been fed more whiskey every fortnight since. Next week I’ll layer on marzipan and ice it in time for our Christmas drinks thing. And Christmas Eve and Christmas lunch. And tea on Boxing Day.”

John realised his mouth was hanging open, so shut it.

Sherlock’s expression temporarily broke from affronted to giddy. “It weighs as much as two Pomeranians! Tart  _and_  sweet cherries, dried plums, two kinds of currants, and three kinds of raisins. It’s sublime.” He shoved his fists into the pockets of his dressing gown and set his shoulders. “I assure you your whiskey has not gone to waste.”

John huffed a laugh. “I thought it was an experiment.”

“Well, in a way.”

John gave him a look.

“If executed properly, the results will be twofold. I seek to prove the primary hypothesis–it will get us drunk–as well as the secondary hypothesis–it will be  _delicious_.” He went wide-eyed as he explained, hands flying through the air to punctuate it. “I expect an unmitigated success.”

John sat back in his chair, slumping in surrender. He shook his head. “New rule,” he said. “When you appropriate consumables which I might later assume I imbibed in a blackout…leave a note.”


End file.
